


That Deserves Another Toast

by Jezunya



Series: The Snow Turned Into Rain [2]
Category: Community
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Outtakes, Present Tense, backdated, originally posted on ff.net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outtakes from 'A Toast to Innocence.' Some flashbacks, some continuations, some fluff, some angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Next Generation

He looks down at the little slip of paper in his hand, reading over the address one more time. This is it. His GPS didn’t steer him wrong. The address is written in neat, if slightly curly, handwriting, and matches the gold numbering on the front of the cream-colored house he’s parked in front of. The front lawn is smallish, but well-watered and perfectly manicured. He can see blue curtains fluttering at the edges of the windows on both stories. The front door is made of solid dark wood with a little segmented semicircular window at the top and a burnished bronze door handle. The house is neat, elegant.

Very Annie.

He should get out of the car. He should get out and walk up the steps and knock on the front door and stop being such a _goddamn coward._

What is he so afraid of? A couple of kids? Annie’s kids? The kids Annie had with the man she’d been married to for the past twelve years? Yeah, that sounded about right.

“ _They’ll like you_ ,” she’d assured him, standing on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “ _I promise._ ” They’ve been doing this little dance for a few weeks now, meeting for lunch, spending the weekend together when the kids are at their father’s, not exactly sneaking around but trying for subtlety anyway. But it’s time for him to meet her kids, she’d decided. It’s time for the kids to meet _him_.

This is the first time he’s been to her house. So far, he’s managed to always arrange things so they either meet in town somewhere or go back to his place. Her house has been, in his mind, off limits – not because he thinks Annie wouldn’t welcome him there, but because there are three little people who he _knows_ aren’t in love with him like their mother is.

Somewhere deep inside him, in the dark little hole that years of therapy have at least taught him how to face and control if not ever actually rid him of, Jeff looks into a mirror and sees his father’s face looking back at him.

What could he ever be to these kids? What does Annie possibly expect of him?

He should drive away. Right now. He should spare them all.

That’s when the little knock sounds on his window, and he blinks in confusion for a moment before spotting the tuft of brown hair and the wide eyes peering up over the edge of the door at him. The kid is standing on tiptoe, and he scuttles back a few feet as Jeff slowly rolls the glass down.

“Yes?” he asks, then clears his throat when his voice comes out shaky and rough.

“Is your name Jeff-er-y?” the little boy asks shyly, peeking up at him again. He pronounces the name with extreme care, reminding Jeff of his own childhood struggle against saying ‘Jeffwey.’

“Uh.”

“My mom says your name is Jeffery, and my name is Jeffery too,” the kid says dubiously, studying Jeff through his eyelashes.

Jeff’s eyes dart back up to the house, where, sure enough, Annie is leaning in the doorway, smiling knowingly at them. When he looks down again, the kid is still watching, teetering between curiosity and suspicion. “Your mom’s a smart lady,” he murmurs.

Jeffery’s face breaks into a wide smile at that, and, before he can give it another thought, Jeff opens the door and gets out of the car.

 


	2. Sometime Around Midnight

Britta is the only one he ever sees anymore. There’s a harsh kind of symmetry there, satisfying in its bitterness: she was the first one he met, the reason they all came together, and so she’s the last holdout, the only one who won’t leave him alone, even after the last year since graduation – the year he’s spent avoiding everyone he ever met in this shithole of a town.

She’s ambushed him at the bar, late at night, as usual. She gave up a while ago trying to get him to come out to any kind of scheduled get-togethers. Now it’s just this: forced, “random” encounters, where they both end up drunk and one or the other of them goes home piss angry. She always brings news of how the others are doing, and he always tries to ignore what she’s saying, but this time she hits a nerve.

His eyes follow the swaying silhouette of a couple out on the floor, dancing under the dim orange lights of the bar. The girl is of a similar build, her hair glossy and soft-looking and just a shade off. Her face is turned away from him, nestled into the shoulder of the man holding her, but it’s just as well, because it would break the illusion.

She could almost be Annie.

He can see her dancing just like this, moving in a slow circle, a peaceful smile on her face. Eyes closed. Warm and secure in her lover’s arms.

He turns away and downs the rest of the scotch in one long swallow, then just holds the glass in his hands and stares down at the wood grain in front of him instead of looking back at Britta. “Good for her,” he says at last, emphatically, and rises, drops some cash on the counter, and walks out. Britta doesn’t try to stop him.

* * *

Back at his apartment, he flips the business card over in his fingers a few more times, and then finally hits _Send_ on his cell. The line rings as he presses it to his ear, and then it picks up halfway through the second tone.

“Mr. Winger!” the voice on the other end greets him enthusiastically.

“Addams,” he replies. “Sorry to call so late-”

“Not a problem. You know what they say, no rest for the wicked,” the other man chuckles. “Now, I assume you’re calling because you’ve thought about our offer? You ready to get out of that dinky little suburb?”

Jeff looks over at the one sentimental photograph he’s ever kept in his apartment. It’s gathering dust on the shelf across the room, but still, he can make out the faces. He’d be able to recognize them anywhere, no matter how much time has passed or how much they’ve drifted apart. His gaze settles on one face in particular, the wide blue eyes and exuberant smile framed by pale skin and dark brown hair as she waves at the camera.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone, “I think I am.”

 


End file.
